Chapter Text
“If you close your eyes, I am there,
in your nakedness, in your truth.
If you ask for me, I will come
in your age, in your youth.
Because I love you, lover.
And wish to be loved.
Find me here, said love.
I wish to be loved.”
― Kamand Kojouri
"I think there's a meth cook in my building," Ed said.
Izzy, next to him at the bar, barked a laugh. "There. You're so fucking bored all the time, there's a career for you."
"Nah. I like my teeth." Ed rolled his tongue across them, sucked air in, blew it out again in a sigh. "I hear they don't go back in."
It was true that he was bored. Edward Teach, 42, was a salesman, and he was really fucking good at it; started with cars in his hungry youth and now he sold durable medical equipment to hospital boards; million dollar machines, state-of-the-art science, to wealthy pricks who didn't even really know what the damned things were for, just wanted to hear how much the shareholders would like them being in the brochures. He was good. The stuff he sold helped people, probably, eventually; and he got a lot of money for doing it, and travel, and a bunch of awards sitting in his closet back home.
It was so incredibly boring. He could feel himself turning to stone, every year a little more. A rich, attractive, hollow statue.
This bar was his favorite since it was within walking distance of his apartment, hadn't been gentrified out of existence, carried Lunatic & Lover rum, and Izzy came here. And he needed Izzy.
“Moved in six months ago and I’ve never seen him once,” he mused. “Ben says nobody has - "
"Ben's the landlord? Fuck're you doing talking to landlords?"
"No, he's the super - shut up, I've never met the fucking landlord. Anyway, this guy. Pays rent online, had an assistant or something supervise the movers, perfectly normal car parked in his spot but it never leaves. Everything delivered. Lots of mysterious packages. ‘S fucking weird.”
“So it’s weird,” Izzy grumbled. “If he’s a recluse so much the better, he won’t bother anyone.”
“Man, aren’t you ever curious about anything? What if he’s a murderer? What if he’s in there doing murders?” Ed finished his drink and set the glass down, carefully parallel to the bar’s edge, sliding it back and forth in its own puddle of condensation. "Eating people's brains?"
“If you don’t know, you probably won’t get murdered.”
“Psh.”
It was getting late. He didn’t have to work the next day, but he also didn’t feel like staying out another three hours, getting drunk, stumbling home, and passing out alone. Once upon a time he’d have taken Izzy home with him, but that - whatever it was - had fizzled out years ago, too much Izzy treating life like the fucking Bataan Death March, too much Ed being flighty and surface level and not interested in finding new and unexciting ways to make more money. They were decent together in small doses, or in harness together towards an immediate and concrete goal, but anything past that just…chafed.
But not enough to part ways for good, because he needed Izzy.
“I’m done,” Ed sighed, and put down a few bills for his tab. “If I die in a meth lab explosion, I told you so.”
“Don’t get murdered,” Izzy said. Ed gave a little wave of acknowledgement over his shoulder as he pushed through the pub’s doors, out into the street.
It was cloudy, moist and cool, good for the walk home. Most of the shops he passed were closed for the night. A cat meowed at him from an alley before fading back into its shadows. His own footsteps echoed flatly off the nearby storefronts.
Ed thought about being a recluse, a hermit.
He spent a lot of time being ‘on’ for his job; animated, charismatic, persuasive, fitting in everywhere, shifting himself to meet the culture of the places he went. Bars, business meetings, conferences, always smiling, always selling. He wasn’t sure he knew how to be alone, anymore; who was the real Ed under the facade? What did he like? What did he want?
When he reached his apartment building, a shiny contemporary mid-rise with wide, glassed-in balconies, he looked up at his own unit, up on the 7th floor; the pride flag he’d hung up when he moved in was swaying in the light, rain-scented breeze. At that moment there was nothing he wanted more in the whole world than to open his bedroom window to that breeze and fall into bed under it. Exhaustion with his life had landed onto his shoulders like a load of snow on a tree branch, and it bore him down, bent his head.
He trudged through the lobby, deciding that no, he wouldn’t check his mail right now, thank you, and saw the elevator doors beginning to close just as he was arriving at them. Fuck.
“Oi, wait,” he called, a little hopelessly; whoever was in that elevator wouldn’t hear him, surely, or be bothered to wait for a dark stranger late at night, people were people, after all -
And a hand shot out between the closing doors.
For a second Ed was sure, absolutely positive, that the doors weren’t going to stop, some mechanical or electronic failure, and the hand would be crushed; screaming, blood, a call to emergency services. Fortunately that was just his paranoia. The doors stopped, just as they should, and reversed, sliding back open with a sigh.
“Fuck, thanks mate,” Ed exhaled. He slid into the elevator, staying to his own side, trying not to crowd the stranger who had helped him, to make their interaction as quick and convenient as possible. The stranger stood against the other wall, and there was a large shipping box between them, which helped.
“Of course,” the stranger said. Their voice was masculine, but light, crisp diction, bit of a familiar accent.
Ed looked from the corner of his eye - helplessly curious - and found an enigma. The stranger was wearing, shrouded in really, a faded cardigan which might once have been turquoise; it hung low on their thighs, sleeves bunched up around their wrists; it had a hood, which was pulled low over their head, shadowing the face, the eyes, but one little auburn curl had escaped. They had a trimmed, tidy salt-and-ginger beard. Every bit of their body language said “Forget me, ignore me, I am not actually here, kindly forgive the imposition of my existence.” Jeans, straight-legged, neither faded nor worn; leather shoes, walking shoes, expensive.
“I could’ve waited for the next one but I’m fucking knackered," Ed’s voice went on, without his permission. “This weather makes me have to sleep.”
“Low barometric pressure,” the stranger agreed, with the curve of a smile in their voice. “Knocks me right out, too.”
Stop talking, Ed’s brain said. This person does not want to engage with you. You are not trying to sell them anything. All YOU want is home and sleep; all THEY want is the same, probably; lay the fuck off.
“Ed Teach,” his mouth said anyway, and his hand reached out on its own, over the box top. He could tell the stranger was compelled by deep-seated politeness to shake, and inside Ed was cringing at himself, but fuck, that hand was warm, soft. Big. Nice. The cardigan sleeve brushed the ball of his thumb and that was nice, too.
“Steve Brown,” the stranger said. “Very nice to meet you.”
"Need a hand with that?" He tapped the corner of the box once their hands separated. "Heavy post?"
"Oh - no, not really, just some bits and bobs," Steve Brown said. Quickly. Arms pulled back in, armor put back up. "Thank you, but I'll be fine."
The elevator stopped at Ed's floor, and he got out alone, with a smile and a nod for Steve Brown, who - face suddenly illuminated, revealed, by the hallway light - smiled back. He (presuming, on the pronoun - maybe if they met again Ed would ask?) had gentle eyes, a little reserved, a little cautious; he looked to be around Ed's age; he had a pretty smile, closed-mouthed, soft.
It prickled something in the back of his mind, that face, but Ed was too tired to figure it out.
Still, the brief contact left him warm inside, like he’d had a cup of sweet tea. That warmth carried him through his front door, into his sparsely decorated apartment, the sofa as perfect as the day it was carried in because he never had company, the art-bare walls, into the bedroom where he slid the window open and let in the soft night, through dropping his clothes right on the floor and crawling into bed, underneath the quilt his mother had sent him, the only thing in here that really felt like his, like him.
Steve, was his last conscious thought. Nice. Warm. Steve.
Saturday was for chores. Which was bullshit, but Ed had long ago determined that it was either chores every Saturday or throw away all his belongings and start over fresh every three months. And while he could probably afford that now…nah. So he set his alarm for 10am, spent half an hour hitting snooze over and over until he had to pee, turned on a playlist of loud getting-shit-done music, and put his shoulder to the grindstone.
He had a process.
It started with laps around the apartment; once for dishes, twice for dirty clothes; then a pause to put dishes in the dishwasher and clothes in the clothes-washer; a third lap for Actual Garbage, and a final, meandering one for migratory books and other misplaced things. Making space. (When the place got too cluttered he got claustrophobic and started Purging his belongings.)
Spraying things with cleaning spray (stovetop, counters, sinks, toilet, shower).
Wiping down all the shit he'd sprayed with cleaning spray.
Watering his two plants.
Putting the laundry in the dryer, and putting the clean dishes away.
Vacuuming.
And last of all, taking the actual-garbage down to the dumpster, where he could reward himself with a cigarette.
He didn't see anyone on the trip down, but when he came back inside, the mail carrier was at the lobby mailboxes. He was just setting down a large shipping box, and he looked peeved.
"Morning," Ed offered. "Anything for 7b?"
He got an advertising circular and a brief but vivid rant about people who should use a shipping company for large parcels instead of burdening the regular post with it, honestly, people just do not think anymore.
He looked, while he was pretending to listen, nodding sympathetically, and yeah. The shipping label said Brown, Steve. 8A.
8A.
8A was meth lab guy.
Saturday chores done at last, normally Ed would go straight back to his apartment, rest, make lunch, maybe open a book, and enjoy being home.
Instead he wandered a few feet towards the elevators; he pretended to look through the ads; he waited until the mail guy left.
Then, smooth as anything, he picked up Steve's package, got into the elevator, and hit the 8 button.
This wasn't invasive or creepy, he told himself. Steve had done him a favor, so he was doing one back. Simple.
Neighbors should be neighborly.
When he rang the doorbell, Ed was full of confident curiosity. He could sell anything, make anyone like him; he would figure this guy out; maybe he wasn't even a meth cook, maybe he was just shy. Pretty and shy and looking for a friend (with or without benefits).
But a minute stretched into two minutes and there was no answer.
Hmm. Awkward.
Figures. It was just like a brilliant Ed Teach plan to fizzle out for the most mundane fuckin' thing he'd failed to consider.
He sighed, and rang the bell one more time, just in case; gave it another two minutes out of sheer stubborn hope; and was turning away, feeling like an idiot, when there was a thump and a muffled curse from behind the door. Like someone inside had leaned against it, to squint out the peephole, and smacked their forehead into the wood.
"Steve?" Ed said, leaning back to where he'd be in sight from said peephole. "Hey, sorry to bother you - it's Ed, from the elevator last night? I've brought your parcel up."
There was a pause, during which Ed devoutly hoped he wasn't talking to this guy's cat, or something.
A soft jingling, the turning of a lock, and 8A's door opened an inch.
"Ed?"
It was Steve. His hair was mussed and he was wearing a long robe and a pair of oversized sunglasses. The puff of air that came out past through the door smelled appealingly of tea.
Fascinating.
"Yeah - fuck, I'm sorry, you probably sleep in on weekends." Ed tried his best, softest, most aw-shucks smile. "Nah, I was coming up from taking my trash to the bin and the post was just being dropped off. Figured I could save you a trip. I'll just - leave it here for you, hey?"
He patted the top of the box twice, like it was a friendly dog, and turned away again.
"Wait," Steve said.
Ed waited.
"That was kind of you," Steve said. "When we don't even know each other."
Ed kept waiting. This was fishing, and Steve was circling the bait, nosing at it.
"Would you like to come in for tea?"
A bite! A solid bite!
"I don't want to intrude - " Ed demurred. He very, very much wanted to intrude.
"Nonsense," Steve said, firmly, and opened the door. "It's the neighborly thing to do."
Flush with victory, Ed picked the shipping box up again and carried it into Steve's apartment.
"Holy shit," he said.
Steve's apartment was a little museum. Or a junk shop, maybe. So much STUFF.
"I know it's a bit…busy - " Steve said.
"Busy? Fuck that, it's incredible," Ed breathed. "Look at it all! You could give tours!"
"Oh, well," Steve said, bashful and pleased. "I like to collect - to have interesting and pretty things around me, I suppose. Feel free to have a look round while I bring the tea out. Cream and sugar?"
"Yeah. Yeah, sweet is good," Ed said absently. He'd found a genuine ship in a bottle on a bookshelf, and crouched down to examine it, lost in the intricate little details.
Steve turned into the kitchen, leaving Ed unattended.
He looked at the ship and the crystal inkwell next to it whose pewter base was shaped like an octopus, and a cluster of what he thought were vintage perfume bottles, and then the stack of framed art leaned against the side of that bookcase, stuff that hadn't been hung up for whatever reason. He started looking through them. They seemed to be classic film posters, stuff from the 30s, really awesome, and then he saw it, modern and hidden behind the others, and after a few seconds realization hit and all the air went out of his body. Oh shit. Oh shit.
"I hope Yorkshire Gold is all right!" Steve called from the kitchen.
Except his name wasn't Steve, was it.
It was Stede. He was Stede Bonnet.
Ed had found Stede Bonnet, was in his apartment, about to drink his tea.
And for the first time in a very long time Ed had absolutely no idea what to do.